Chaos undone, p.59
Chaos Undone, page 59
“I think the greatest issue,” Flowridia said, “is that there is realistically no end of people who want me dead—or the baby, given the most prevalent rumor is that it’s Casvir’s.”
It wounded her to be unable to kneel beside the new growths, but at least she could caress the trees as she passed. Within, she yearned to feel them as she had before, back when the life in them had sung with the magic inside her.
Someday, perhaps. But someday felt more and more impossible each day.
“Let’s make a list,” came Etolié’s sardonic reply. “All of Solvira. Most of the elves. Anyone in Nox’Kartha who thinks you’re a throne-hopping hoe. My demon mother-in-law. Izthuni. Hell, throw Murishani onto the list—he was a little too happy you got fat.”
“I think he’d be more than happy to add my soul to his collection. He has a habit of doing that.”
Yet Etolié frowned, a blight in the sunny day. “Our most recent assassin was sent by a ‘woman keen to hide her identity.’”
“Yes, but that means nothing. Disguise spells are a dime a dozen.”
Still, Etolié’s smile was entirely pained. “And the first assassin was a Whispering Elf,” Flowridia said.
“Yes, but Executor Faeborn had nothing to do with it.”
Flowridia stopped her chair in front of Etolié. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I need to have a stern conversation with someone who isn’t you.”
Flowridia pushed the chair forward, bumping Etolié’s thigh with her knees, causing the Celestial to stumble back. “Is this some misguided attempt to protect me?”
Etolié responded by levitating. “Bitch, I will push your chair into the lake. It’s not. It’s shit I have to speak lightly about, but if my theory is true, you’re safe at least until Ayla comes back.”
The name spiked Flowridia’s blood pressure. “Are you insinuating that Ayla tried to have my child murdered?”
“No! Oh, for fuck’s sake—if Ayla were going to do it, she’d do something way cleverer than anything we’ve already seen. Whoever wants your kid dead doesn’t behave like they have personal access to your food, water, and sleeping body. Give your wife more credit than that. It’s definitely not her.”
“You understand why I’m frustrated by this conversation, right?”
“I do, but I need you to shut the fuck up because we’re about to have company.”
With some mobility struggle, Flowridia managed to turn her chair around—and there approached Marielle, with Zorlaeus trailing like a puppy close behind. “Flowridia! I was told I’d find you here!”
Blessedly, her expected hug was far gentler than her last, the chair a deterrent for suffocating Flowridia with her cleavage. “Hello, Marielle.”
“And Etolié!” Marielle seemed lost, her offered hug disappearing as quickly as she had raised her arms—given Etolié simply folded hers and glared. “It’s been so long. How are you?”
“I was enjoying the fresh air.” It was not coincidence that she spoke in past tense. Her expression softened to greet Zorlaeus, however. “Hi, Zorlaeus. Lovely day, wasn’t—isn’t it?”
“It’s a beautiful afternoon,” Zorlaeus affirmed.
“Oh my goodness, look at you in that awful chair!” Marielle gave a dramatic grimace as she inspected Flowridia’s new device—if she were offering comfort, she was doing the worst possible job. “I’m so sorry your health keeps taking these turns. But things will look up once the baby comes, right? How much longer is that?”
“We’re not quite sure,” Flowridia replied, her struggle to keep her composure a losing battle. “Half-elf pregnancies are known for their mysterious timelines. It could be next week. It could be a month or two. Perhaps even longer.”
“Well, you’re glowing, and that’s what matters! Where is Ayla on this fine day?”
“Why do you give a shit?” Etolié asked, uncharacteristically monotone.
Marielle made a small frown. “Because Ayla is my friend’s wife.”
“Ayla is currently assisting with saving the world,” Flowridia replied, her patience running threadbare. “You can let Murishani know that too.”
To Marielle’s credit, though her acting skills were questionable, she had the good sense to look marginally offended. “I don’t actually work for him, you know.”
“I never said you did. I just said you can let him know.” Flowridia forced her smile to stay, even as her words remained terse. “Let him know I’m in terrible spirits. It’ll make his day. Let him know I’m constantly in pain somewhere and exhausted and pushing everyone I love away from me. A pity for him that I’m not quite ‘fat’ anymore, but perhaps those will make up for that slight on my part, hmm?”
Marielle’s countenance held all the guilt of a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar—and behind her, Zorlaeus simply looked at the ground. “I can see that you’re angry—”
“As Etolié said, it was a lovely day. But then Staelash’s resident bully and her loyal cuckold decided to ruin my day.”
Beside her, Etolié made a noise akin to a donkey trying not to wheeze, but Flowridia merely glared as Marielle muttered a half-hearted, “Have a nice day,” and trudged away. Some part of her felt a modicum of guilt for the jab at Zorlaeus, but she was far too exhausted to apologize, content to watch as he followed her away.
Finally, Etolié snickered. “Fuck, I feel so awful. That was fine art though, Flowers.”
“It’s the least she deserves.” Though Flowridia seethed, she managed to squash it down. Etolié deserved plenty of things, but not to be screamed at. “Is she the one you were thinking of?”
“Marielle? No way. Bitch doesn’t have enough brain cells to plot a proper assassination.”
“But you’re not going to—”
“Look, I don’t know, Flowers.” Etolié’s dramatic sigh somehow deflated Flowridia’s own frustration. “So shut the fuck up before I say something I shouldn’t.”
Flowridia navigated forward with her chair, uncertain if she should feel patronized or not. “It’s strange that Ayla isn’t back yet though, right? Could something have happened in Sha’Demoni?”
“Given the group consists of a daughter of Ku’Shya, The Endless Night, and the Goddess of Chaos, I literally can’t fathom what could have happened. Am I worried? Yes, but I’ve been having a silent panic attack since being crowned empress, so no point in worrying more than we have to—yet.”
No, Flowridia was not appeased. Not in the slightest. But Etolié wouldn’t budge, and she already skirted the edges of what was acceptable rage, so Flowridia directed her chair back toward the castle. “I’m restless. Did you say you wanted to assist in finding... the thing?”
“There is truly no better use of my time, Flowers.”
Together, they returned to the castle, thoughts of murder on Flowridia’s mind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
By evening, Flowridia was merely numb. No space for guilt or worry over her love’s failure to return.
A candle lit her bedside table. Flowridia’s gaze shifted between the flame and the bouquet behind it, its poignant message forgotten in the echoing torment of Odessa’s words: “Or you’ll beat her into a spineless little wraith like yourself—”
At least Mother had never denied her crimes. Never justified them. Never lied to herself that all was well.
Though her heart and soul were muted, her body was assuredly not. Her hips burned from the previous day’s walking, her back cramped from carrying the small weight in her stomach, and all the while her hand tingled, the incessant sensation a hum whenever she cared to pay attention to it. Like blinking, it was easy to forget it was there until she was all at once acutely aware—except eyes never seared in pain in the moments she forgot her disability.
Above all, she was so very, very exhausted.
On the couches, Etolié’s wings served to better light the scene than any fireplace or candle, the Celestial’s feigned obliviousness to Flowridia’s dour mood appreciated. Flowridia was done talking. Perhaps she would be better off never opening her mouth again.
“Who are you abusing now?”
Abuse didn’t have to be physical to leave scars. Flowridia knew that too well.
A knock at the door roused her from her stupor. Flowridia could not have risen if she tried but managed to catch Etolié’s eye and nod.
“Come in,” the Celestial said dully.
To Flowridia’s shock, Executor Faeborn let themself in.
The elf looked far humbler than in their last meeting, wearing not the robes of an executor but simpler attire cut to hide their figure. Etolié’s wings caused their skin to nigh illuminate, their pale flesh not suited for golden light. “Lady Flowridia, I apologize for intruding. Might I have a moment of your time? I would not ask if it were not important.”
Flowridia frowned, trapped in the dilemma of showing weakness when she failed to sit or showing weakness by refusing to. Thankfully, Etolié appeared at her side to steady her, helping her to rise even as her back screamed in protest. “Of course. You may pull up a chair if you’d like.”
Faeborn shook their head. “I should not stay long. I doubt Imperator Casvir will be pleased with what I’m about to tell you. Might we speak without your attendant?”
Thoughts of assassination attempts rose discomfortingly in Flowridia’s head, but that paled to the laughable nature of what the elf had just said. Flowridia managed to smirk at Etolié. “She won’t talk. Right, attendant?”
Etolié took no bait, instead playing her part well. “I’m here for Lady Flowridia.”
Faeborn did not look appeased, but instead said, “First, I am sorry to hear that your health has taken a turn. I was disheartened to hear you had stepped down from your role in assisting refugees, but I understand. Pregnancies can be precarious.”
Flowridia kept a neutral countenance at that. “At least the baby will be coming sooner rather than later.”
She hoped.
“You have a compassionate heart, which is why I’ve come,” they said, their confident stance betrayed by their fingers fidgeting with their trousers. “It’s because of you that my people have a place in this kingdom. No question Imperator Casvir would have left us to die or worse. I know this because of what he has decided to do in Meskheta. Do you know?”
“I only know there were rumors that Ku’Shya’s people had made an appearance.”
“Ku’Shya did what?” Etolié asked, breaking her attendant persona.
Faeborn seemed lost on how to proceed, likely not used to such unruly ‘servants.’ Flowridia shook her head. “Ask me later. Go on.”
“I attended a meeting with Imperator Casvir today,” Faeborn replied, “wherein he asked for my input on Ku’Shya’s actions. I told him that I feared we are witnessing further retaliation from her for what the Four Kingdoms did to her daughter. I won’t pretend to understand the details of Demoni Law, but I do know it demands all crimes be rectified.”
Flowridia recalled all too well, once captured to be a sacrifice to pay for what Ayla had done...
“The Ember Elves have turned their capital into a fortress, hunkering down for some unknown cause. Casvir intends to release a disease into Meskheta and destroy them all.”
“What?” Etolié balked.
For her part, Flowridia simply stared, dissecting the grim statement. “A disease?”
“I don’t know the details, only that he mentioned it to one of his generals, but I was there. I know what I heard. I wished to implore you to make him reconsider. This is not warfare—this is genocide.”
Etolié geared up to speak, her fury palpable, but Flowridia held up her good hand, calculating the task ahead. “Would Ku’Shya consider it an insult if Casvir took her victory away from her?”
“Perhaps. It would depend on what she wants from them.”
“Pleading to Casvir about what’s right or wrong is futile, I’ve learned. We have to appeal to whatever serves him best in the long-term. He’s patient. Frankly, a plague seems out of character. His goal isn’t genocide—”
“Except when it is,” Etolié muttered.
“Yes, but Casvir has no personal grudge with the Ember Elves.” Flowridia matched Etolié’s eyes, praying her silent message of ‘shut up and ask me later’ was conveyed. “Casvir wants pledges of godhood. Killing the Ember Elves en mass doesn’t accomplish that. It sounds like he wants this war over, and finding out why might help us stop it. I’ll need to come up with a way to have found out about this without it coming from you, but I will do what I can. I swear.”
Unless it was already too late, but Flowridia shoved thoughts of defeat away.
“Thank you. I should go before it’s suspicious, but please know I won’t forget this aid.”
Faeborn left. Beside Flowridia, Etolié’s jaw had set. “So instead of slaughtered in a night, Casvir is attempting a slower death. Just great.”
“This doesn’t seem like him.” Flowridia stared once more into the candle, seeking meaning in its flame. “There has to be a gamble we don’t know about.”
“Care to explain what happened with Ku’Shya in Meskheta?”
“The very short version of the story is that Ku’Shya’s servants attacked. We don’t know why, only that the outlying people have gathered in Meskheta for protection.”
Etolié's forced smile revealed nothing. “When?”
“A few days ago—at least, that’s when Casvir told me.”
Etolié said nothing, merely kept her grimace.
“What are you thinking?” Flowridia asked.
“I don’t know what to think, Flowers. That’s what fucking scares me. But Casvir’s motives are changing, you said?”
“That’s the only way it all makes sense to me.” Flowridia scooted to the edge of the bed, suddenly distrusting of her legs. “Could you find someone to fetch him? I want to speak to him alone. Tell him I... that I want to talk to him about a project.”
“It’s probably best I don’t see him right now. I’m not super great at keeping my mouth shut when I’m on the verge of ripping some dick’s head off.” Etolié left the bed, heading for the nurse’s station.
Without the angelic light of Etolié’s wings, only the candle remained. Flickering shadows reminded Flowridia of who was lost, the fear she’d once felt for the dark now the only hope she held for her love to return. Oh, where was Ayla? Should she worry that her party had yet to return?
Apologies fixed so little. In the silence, Flowridia was reminded once more of her hand, its incessant tingling of severed nerves driving her mad. She touched the mutilated scar where her pointer finger had once been, the sensation not quite painful, but cold and radiant. Wherever she traced, that prickling followed—to her palm, to the scar of her amputated pinky finger, and finally to the ghost of her ring finger, its loss simply one of many casualties in the Mountains of Kaas. Her wedding ring had been lost amid the ashes.
There was nowhere to place it anyway.
Flowridia shifted from tracing with the gentle pad of her finger to her nail, the spark of pain a warning. She braced herself as she pressed the nail into the vicious scar, pain shooting through her hand, up her forearm. She squeaked but did not cry; tears prickled in her eyes, but she would not cry. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to feel. A whimper escaped her lips, but that was weakness. She dug until her hand burned, until the skin split, until the first welling of blood assuaged her anguish.
Flowridia gasped, shaking as she brought the maimed appendage protectively to her chest. Hardly a sliver, the barest bead of blood. Proof that she lived, that this damn body had not fallen completely apart. The pain lingered, yet waned with every pounding throb of her heart.
There was a time to fall completely apart, but not when there was a knock at the door. “Flowridia?”
Flowridia knew that baritone voice well. “Come in.”
Casvir appeared, a slight furrowing in his brow as he surveyed the scene. “Where is Empress Etolié?”
“I sent her away. I wanted to speak without her.”
Casvir was deliberate in every motion, even as he took the chair from Flowridia’s desk and set it near the bed. “I was told you had a project to discuss.”
“Yes. I know you stripped me of my responsibilities, but I thought of a few ways we might potentially be able to accept Ember Elf refugees.” She lied, of course, but was saved from her internal scramble by the brisk shake of his head.
“Actions have already been taken that would negate any help we could have provided. Though I am pleased you have been keeping your mind busy.”
Dammit—he would change the subject if she let him. “What sort of actions?”
“You already declined to know the details, and they are irrelevant to your current responsibilities anyway.”
“I understand,” Flowridia said, though her own heartbeat might deafen her. “I just know that your goal is pledges of godhood, and accepting refugees is a sure way to achieve them.”
“The Ember Elves would never. They are too proud.”
“We would’ve said the same thing about the Whispering Elves.”
“Then you are naïve to different elven customs. The Four Kingdoms are not a monolith. Executor Faeborn informed me that Ember Elves are more skeptical of outsiders than any of the rest. Their borders are closed to all outside influence. Even foreign elves are viewed with suspicion. A human would be captured on sight. They are worth decimating quickly, to make an example.”
And there was the gamble—perhaps to scare the Iron Elves and what remained of the Highland. “What about Ku’Shya?”
“What about her?”
“We don’t know what she’s after from them. Do you want to risk angering her?”
Casvir was a closed book, but even Flowridia sensed the veiled suspicion behind the words. “I have no use for gods, nor do I worry about their affairs. If Goddess Ku’Shya wants me to stop, she may tell me herself.”
Flowridia couldn’t say if he was mad or audacious, but given his disregard to risking Ku’Shya’s wrath in the past, perhaps both. “I see.”
